On E

Lately, I look at this photo of Fran trying fried chicken for the first time a few weeks ago. It never fails to provide a glimmer of happy.
Lately, I look at this photo on my phone of Fran trying fried chicken for the first time a few weeks ago. It never fails to provide a glimmer of happy.

When I was growing up, I assumed that depression would be more glamorous.  I pictured Debra’s meltdown in Empire Records where she was surrounded by her friends all blathering on about how much she added to the world and how much they loved her.  I figured it would have a killer soundtrack, maybe a song by Kate Bush.  I figured I might gaze forlornly out a window, a tear or two gliding down my cheek.  I read all the gothic poetry, and it all seemed to be a reverie of fog, perfect crushed velvet jackets, and opiates.  Everyone, slick on some black lipstick and channel Fairuza BalkContinue reading On E

Until They Take Away My Hotdog

Golden glowing morning light in Kelly's office
Golden glowing morning light in Kelly’s office

I’m reading The Odd Woman and the City , and within it she talks about Seymour Krim and includes a quote from an essay of his.  Sipping my coffee and nodding my head…

“believe it or not, or believe it and pity me if you are young and swift, I still don’t know truly ‘what I want to be’…In that profuse upstairs delicatessen of mine I’m as open to every wild possibility as I was at 13…Thousands upon thousands of people who I believe are like me are those who have never found the professional skin to fit the riot in their souls.  Many never will…This isn’t presumption so much as a voice of scars and stars talking. I’ve lived it and will probably go on living it until they take away my hotdog…But if you are a proud, searching ‘failure’ in this society and we can take ironic comfort in the fact that there are hundreds of thousands of us, then it is smart and honorable to know what you attempted and why you are now vulnerable to the body blows of those who once saw you robed in the glow of your vision and now only see an unmade bed and a few unwashed cups one the bare wooden table of a gray day.”

Fever Dream

It is Tuesday evening, and I’m angry again.  Internet world, I am Susie Green.  I’m not joking. I’m biting off the end of a loaf of chocolate chip banana bread that a friend made me like an ice cream, the whole loaf in my hand. It’s vastly improving my mood, so there.  I’ve taken to telling everyone to “suck an egg” like we did in the schoolyard in the 80s.  It feels strangely rebellious, pulling back this insult from youth. It feels as powerful and defiant as when I would go in my closet when I was mad at my parents in 3rd or 4th grade and whisper curse words.   Continue reading Fever Dream